


throw your shadow over me

by peacefrog



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Episode: s03e11 Twenty-Three, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Quentin Coldwater's Canon Oral Fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: “Humor me,” Quentin said softly, so softly Eliot could only just make out the sound. “Tell me you don’t think about it.”“I’ve been trying not to.”aka the one where Eliot wears a wrap top and Quentin goes absolutely feral. A 3x11 missing scene.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 28
Kudos: 233





	throw your shadow over me

The Muntjac lurched violently under Eliot’s feet, and jesus fuck why did they ever think that making this thing fly was a good idea. He swore if they made it through this Fairy Queen key quest dick Tick Pickwick bullshit with their heads intact, he was never stepping foot on a magical flying boat ever again. Or any boat for that matter.

He found Quentin in his little wooden box of a room, tucked tightly into one corner of his bunk, looking exhausted in a way that Eliot felt in his bones. The ship pitched him back against the door the moment he clicked it shut, and Quentin lifted his eyes.

“Hey,” Quentin said, and Eliot pressed his body tightly to the door with a smile, doing his damndest to convey _I definitely meant to do that_ with the set of his shoulders.

“Hey. Margo said you were looking for me.”

“Yeah, I…” Quentin pulled himself out of his little corner, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and blinking himself awake. “I was.”

Eliot narrowed his eyes, pushing away from the door carefully, shortening the distance between their bodies by a hair. “Then why are you in here sulking in the dark?”

“I’m not sulking.”

The look on Quentin’s face was one that Eliot knew well, a little bratty, a little more than a little vulnerable, and so unbelievably fucking soft Eliot’s knees feel like they might crumble into dust. And… god. He was so infuriatingly beautiful Eliot could hardly stand to look at him sometimes, with his long, soft hair and a mouth that Eliot knew was even softer. He hadn’t been allowing himself to think of it at all, what the sight of Quentin could do to him, but the look in his eyes there in the filtered light was enough to cut Eliot’s resolve down to the quick in an instant.

Eliot took a breath. He swallowed down the thought, he tucked it tightly away. “You knew where I was,” he said.

“Yeah, well, maybe I wanted you to come and find me.”

“Q…”

“Eliot.”

It should have been illegal, Eliot thought, for someone to say his name like that. To hold it on their tongue and make it sound so fucking erotic. Against his better judgment, he crossed the short distance and sat down next to Quentin, their knees just a breath away from touching.

“Tell me what you want.”

Quentin sighed deeply. “I don’t know,” he said, like he was starting to lose his nerve. “The whole fucking world is falling apart...” His voice started to break a little, and Eliot felt it in his chest. “And we might not ever get the sixth key, and Tick wants to chop all our heads off, and I just…”

He took his hand, and placed it on Eliot’s knee, and squeezed so tightly Eliot felt it everywhere. _Everywhere._ “Q…” Eliot breathed, and it was all that he could say, that singular point of contact between them like a live wire sending sparks straight to his dick.

“Could we maybe just… pretend.” Quentin loosened his grip, but didn’t pull his hand away, the weight of him solid and warm. It was almost enough to make Eliot blush right there. Jesus. Did he always have to be so goddamn _warm._ “Just for an hour, El… I just…”

Eliot bit back the whimper clawing at his throat, forcing his mouth to work. “I don’t know… what you want me to say,” he lied, knowing exactly what Quentin was asking for, what he wanted, and, fuck, Eliot wanted so badly he could taste it.

Quentin smiled at him a little uncertainly, a blush dappling his cheeks scarlet. “Would you just shut your eyes for a second?”

“Q, I—”

“El.” Quentin pulled his hand away, knotting it with his other in his lap. “Just… please.”

Quentin had some nerve, Eliot thought, summoning him to his room like this, looking like a wet dream from another life, asking him to pretend. He could hardly believe he’d once thought of Quentin as being incapable of seduction because, jesus, he didn’t even have to _try_. But Eliot figured, at least with his eyes shut he wouldn’t have to _see it_. “Okay,” he said, letting his vision slip into blackness. “Tell me why I’m doing this.”

At his side, Quentin made a sound, a cross between a sigh and a laugh. “Tell me what it smelled like.”

Eliot’s heart jumped once under his ribs. “I don’t know what you—”

“Don’t bullshit me, El. You know what I’m talking about. The mosaic...”

His pulse picking up, Eliot inhaled, exhaled, his breath stuttering in his chest. Coming to him had been a very, very bad idea. “You know what Fillory smells like, Q.”

“I’m not talking about Fillory.” He let that sit for a moment. “I’m talking about our home.”

Eliot’s palms began to sweat and his eyelids fluttered, almost opening, but he could feel Quentin breathing beside him and fought against the urge. “I don’t know… that we should be doing this right now...”

“Humor me,” Quentin said softly, so softly Eliot could only just make out the sound. “Tell me you don’t think about it.”

“I’ve been trying not to.”

“Eliot.”

There it was again, that fucking mouth of his. Eliot could let himself drown in the shape of its words. He gave himself the space of a breath or two, curling his fingers tightly over his own knees, then slowly, as though there might be some monster waiting for him on the other side, Eliot allowed himself to crack open the door he’d sealed shut weeks ago in some darkened corner of his mind.

He opened his mouth, and let the words flow freely, Quentin’s warmth getting nearer and soaking into his side. “Wood,” he said, breathing in and letting the sense-memory wash over him. “Wood burning on the fire. And, uh… bread.” He let the air shudder out of his lungs and pulled it back in slowly. “Bread rising on the counter. Tea and flowers and the way Teddy’s hair would smell when he’d been playing in the rain.”

They breathed together, touching now from knee-to-shoulder. Two of Quentin’s fingers slipped over Eliot’s hand where it rested on his knee, warmth sinking like a kiss down into tendon and muscle and bone.

“The way we were always covered in chalk and dirt,” Eliot continued, head dizzy with remembering, swimming in it now, going under and helpless to fight. “Our clothes when we were washing them in the river. My face pressed to our patchwork quilt in the dark. Your hand over my mouth, your skin—”

Eliot’s eyes shot open, heart ticking like it was trying to claw its way out of his chest. Quentin’s eyes were wide and locked with his, and their fingers were sliding together, tangling into a jumble of fleshy knots, quick puffs of air slipping from Quentin’s mouth and moving over Eliot’s face fever-warm. Slowly, Quentin leaned in, pressing his mouth to Eliot’s ear, whispering, “I’m there with you,” giving his hand a squeeze. And, oh, he was so so warm, and so achingly familiar, that the air around them seemed frozen by comparison. His mouth a hearth, his body Eliot’s home. 

Quentin pulled back, and Eliot let his eyes scan the line from his eyes to his mouth and back again. “Just…” he started, taking a breath, licking his lips while Quentin just sat there looking like the greatest temptation ever created. “Just an hour…”

“Yes,” Quentin said, “An hour. And then—”

Eliot didn’t wait for him to finish. Fuck it, he thought, shutting off his brain and sinking into the glorious, mindless urge to seek flesh, crashing their lips together, getting his fingers in Quentin’s hair. Quentin moaned into his mouth, and Eliot swallowed it down, feeling filled with it until he thought he might actually burst. Might actually for real just fucking _die_ right there with Quentin Coldwater’s tongue in his mouth.

And then Quentin was straddling his lap, and wrapping his legs around Eliot’s middle, and yeah, he wasn’t going to make it. Rest in fucking pieces, Eliot Waugh. Again. Maybe this time it would actually take.

Quentin’s hands on his face, in his hair. Quentin’s flesh under his fingers as Eliot pushed up the back of his shirt. It was all too much at once, and for a moment Eliot couldn’t even hope to remember how to breathe, how to do anything that wasn’t getting Quentin’s body just a little closer to his body.

“Shit,” he huffed, finally, breaking the kiss and panting into the hollow of Quentin’s throat. “Q, we should, um…”

“No,” Quentin said, taking Eliot’s face between his hands, breathing against his lips, striking sparks in Eliot’s blood. “We’re at the mosaic.” He pressed a kiss to Eliot’s mouth, once, pulled away, nuzzling into him, fingers slipping up into his hair at the temples. “We’ve been here for a little more than a year.”

“Q.” Eliot let the syllable ache out of his chest, begging for something that he couldn’t name. For Quentin, for his skin his words his mouth his—

“We can’t stop…” Quentin whimpered, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s neck, burying his face in the hollow just below his ear. “Every night… you’re inside me. And it feels so… El, it feels so…”

Eliot swore he could feel every drop of blood in his body rushing to his dick all at once. He didn’t think he’d ever been so hard in his life. He buried his face in the crook of Quentin’s neck, dragging his teeth along the flesh there, sinking them in just a little, just to let him feel it. “Baby,” he breathed, giving himself over to the heat of Quentin’s body, the scent of his hair, the warmth of his lips passing over Eliot’s ear. “Tell me…”

Quentin’s moan traveled from Eliot’s ear straight to his dick. The Muntjac rattled around them, jostled on a violent current of air, and Quentin pulled back, clinging to Eliot’s shoulders, the pads of his fingers digging roughly into the fabric of his shirt. And everything about him was amplified by a fucking thousand like this, his lips pink and wet and parted, his face flushed a deep shade of cherry red, hair wild and mussed from Eliot’s greedy hands.

“Um,” he started, biting at his lip, and Eliot fought the urge to wrap his mouth around that very spot when he let it slip free from his teeth. “It, um…”

“Hey.” Eliot wrapped both his hands around Quentin’s neck loosely, feeling the frantic thump, thump, thumping of his blood. “We’re at the mosaic. Yeah? Just you and me, nothing else. No one can hurt you, or touch you, just my hands…”

Quentin sank against him with a broken sound, a noise that built upon itself and then fizzled away into the hollow of Eliot’s neck. “It feels good.” Quentin let the words stretch out, like he was bathing in them, letting each syllable flow from his tongue like a kiss. “You fuck me every night and it feels so good.”

Eliot wrapped Quentin completely in his arms, rocking up a little to let him feel his hardness. “Sometimes I fuck you in the morning too,” he purred, nosing up and down the curve of Quentin’s neck, feeling drunk with it. “Or sometimes I just fuck that pretty mouth.”

“Yes,” Quentin said, the sound of it all begging, and Eliot felt like he might be losing his mind. “That’s what I want.”

Eliot tugged Quentin back, stealing his mouth in a hungry kiss, breaking away to nuzzle against his blushing cheek. “You wanna suck me off, baby?”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathed, pawing at Eliot’s arms, his back, anywhere he could get his hands. “Please…”

The world in Eliot’s view narrowed down to a single point at that: the bow of Quentin’s wanting lips and nothing more. If they were on a quest, if some dick sitting on his throne wanted his head, Eliot couldn’t be bothered to remember. The only thing on Earth or Fillory he could be certain of was Quentin. “Okay,” he said, nodding, hands slipping down the back of Quentin’s pants, feeling absolutely starved for his skin. “But don’t make me come. I want everything, baby, I want…”

“I want that too,” Quentin said, and kissed him, sighing languidly into Eliot’s mouth.

Eliot tugged at the back of his shirt, breaking the kiss. “I want this off of you,” he said, planting his lips to the curve of Quentin’s jaw. “Stand up.”

Quentin pulled away, tottering to his feet, but Eliot couldn’t stop touching him for even a second, dragging fingers up the dip of his belly as Quentin pulled the shirt up over his head and tossed it away. He asked, “Is this good?” and Eliot felt delirious, letting his eyes sweep from Quentin’s soft pink lips down to the bulge straining at the front of his pants.

“It’s perfect,” Eliot said on an exhale, pawing at the hard line of Quentin’s erection, reveling in the sound it pulled from his chest, the way he scrabbled at Eliot’s shoulders to keep himself steady, pressing into the contact. “You’re fucking perfect, Q.”

Eliot pulled Quentin nearer, burying his face in the soft flesh of his belly and shutting his eyes. Breathing in deeply, Eliot was there, not soaring through the turbulent sky in a petulant magic boat that almost certainly wanted him to die, but with both feet planted firmly on solid ground. At the mosaic with the Fillorian summer warming his skin, another patchwork pattern coming to life under his hands, Quentin at his side, laughing, smiling, reaching over to—

Quentin half-crawled into his lap, fumbling blindly at the back of his shirt. “Take off your clothes,” he said, smiling against Eliot’s mouth before stealing it in another hungry kiss, breaking away laughing a second later “A little help?”

“So impatient,” Eliot teased, feeling anything but patient, using up every last bit of willpower he had left to stop himself from ripping Quentin’s pants from his body. “How about I make you a deal? I’ll take off my shirt, and you take off your pants.”

Quentin actually whined at that. “No,” he said, pressing his full weight against Eliot’s chest for a moment, the heat of him spilling down through the fabric of his shirt like a goddamn radiator, and Eliot could only draw him nearer. “How would it be fair for me to be completely naked while you still have your pants on?”

“Okay, okay.” Eliot pressed a kiss to his shoulder, to the curve of his neck. “I’ll take off my… everything, and you take off yours. How’s that?”

When Quentin pulled away this time, he was grinning ear-to-ear. “Yes,” he said, stumbling to his feet and kicking off his shoes, steadying himself with one hand pressed flat to the wall behind him when the boat gave a sudden lurch. 

He peeled off his socks, tossed them over his shoulder, began fumbling with the buckle of his belt, flushed from the tops of his ears all the way down the slender expanse of his chest. Eliot couldn’t take his eyes from the sight before him, Quentin was just so goddamn pretty, so soft and eager and lithe, and he’d only just started untying his shirt at the back when Quentin shoved his pants and underwear down, kicking them away.

Quentin stepped forward, and Eliot pulled him into his arms, hands going to the curve of his ass on instinct. “That’s cheating,” he whimpered, a gorgeous, high, needy little sound, and Eliot pulled him in to straddle his lap again, sucked a kiss into the hollow of his throat.

Eliot hummed, pressing their bodies together tightly, the hardness of Quentin’s erection pressing into him through the fabric of his shirt. “How do you expect me to resist all this, hm?”

“El,” Quentin whined, moaning when Eliot gave his ass a squeeze. “Come on…”

Eliot relented, his hands aching for Quentin’s skin the moment he pulled them away, but finally getting his shirt undone at the back. Quentin was pulling it open the second he saw his chance, unwrapping Eliot like he was a present on Christmas morning and sucking a trail of kisses along the jut of his collarbone. Eliot’s fingers went to his hair, feeling rabid, Quentin’s teeth and tongue and lips setting his skin on fire.

Eliot peeled the shirt from his body and Quentin slipped out of his lap, tugging at his shoes the moment his knees hit the floor, tossing them away before going for his socks. “You don’t have to do that,” Eliot laughed, and Quentin gazed up at him with a smirk that might have looked demure were he not in the process of literally salivating for Eliot’s cock.

“You were taking too long,” he said, slipping his fingers into the waistband of Eliot’s pants and giving them a tug. “Please…”

Their eyes locked together. Neither of them moved. And for a moment Eliot allowed himself to think, _Maybe I can stop being such a coward and have this for good,_ stamping it down almost as quickly as the thought entered his mind. No. Eliot shut his eyes, suddenly more than a little overwhelmed, mechanically lifting his hips for Quentin to get his pants and underwear down below his ass.

_I will have this,_ he thought, _for now. And that will be enough. An hour is more than enough to hold me over for... the rest of my goddamn life._

He opened his eyes and Quentin was staring up at him, pulling the pants loose from his ankles and discarding them to the floor. “Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes going all soft and uncertain as he took in the expression on Eliot’s face.

Eliot reached down, taking Quentin’s face in his hands. “I’m perfect, sweetheart,” he said, doing his best to ignore the ache slashing without mercy at the center of his chest. “I’m here with you. At the mosaic. And everything is fucking spectacular.”

Quentin pressed a kiss to the soft flesh of Eliot’s wrist, surging forward and pressing another to the curve of his knee. “Hey,” he said, and Eliot slipped a hand over his nape, shoving the ache away, away, away.

“Hey,” Eliot breathed, moving his body forward just a little, planting his feet firmly to the cool planks of the Muntjac’s floor. He took his free hand, wrapped it around his dick, thinking, _this is where you need to focus, Waugh. This is all you need._ “You want this, baby?”

Quentin nodded, licking his lips. “Jesus fuck yes,” he said, laughing a little, his blush growing somehow even deeper. And oh, yes, this was abso-fucking-lutely what Eliot needed to get out of his head.

Eliot thumbed at the delicate pink curve of Quentin’s bottom lip. “Then open that pretty mouth for me,” he said, and Quentin did so at once, going all supple and pliant, and it was enough to make Eliot’s balls ache, the knowledge of what that mouth could do.

Quentin’s hands went from Eliot’s knees to his thighs, and one of Eliot’s hands went to Quentin’s hair, and he guided that delicate eager wet hot _perfect_ mouth down onto his dick, teasing the head across the bow of his lips before tugging him away. And Quentin _whined_ at that, his tongue darting out like he couldn’t possibly wait even one more second before getting a taste.

And yeah. Fuck yeah. This was a game that Eliot could play.

“Don’t tease me,” Quentin said on an exhale, his wet lips shining and pink and looking so so… fuck. So _hungry._ “I want it. Give it to me, Eliot, fuck.”

Eliot took a breath, let it out. “How could I deny you when you ask so sweetly,” he said, tugging Quentin’s hair back to get a good look at the delicate line of his wanting throat. “Open wider for me baby.”

And Quentin did. Oh, Quentin opened his mouth wide as the gates of heaven welcoming him in, but not before shoving Eliot’s hands away, replacing the one on his dick with his own, using the other to steady himself on the curve of Eliot’s hip. Quentin’s mouth found the head of his dick with a dizzying warm wetness, and Eliot’s hands found the soft tangle of his long dark hair, and everything went all buzzy in his blood.

Quentin just held him in his mouth for a second, moaning around the fullness of the head before giving him the soft curl of his tongue, lavishing it over Eliot’s slit with happy sounds slipping from his throat. “Now who’s teasing?” Eliot groaned, his fingers tightening their hold on Quentin’s hair, his dick actually throbbing at the sight of the spit hanging from his glistening lips.

“I’ve missed you,” Quentin said, with such _tenderness_ Eliot felt it like a fist around his heart and, oh, the contrast between that and the desire pooling between his legs was enough to make him feel absolutely wasted. “I’ve missed this.”

“You have me,” Eliot said, his voice a thick ruin of emotions, and it was all he could do to toss his head back, focus on the planks of the ceiling, the shadows moving there as the boat hurtled through the clouds and Quentin’s breath came out in hot little puffs against the head of his cock. “We’re at the mosaic…”

“Yes,” Quentin said, pausing for the space of a single breath before swallowing Eliot almost to the root and, jesus fuck, it was almost like his dick had never been touched before now. Eliot had to squeeze his eyes shut and will his body not to come right then.

Eliot could feel him gagging around it, and he knew it had been a long, long time since Quentin had actually done anything like this in this version of his body but oh, how he admired his determination. Quentin pulled back panting, his hungry, delicate mouth upturning in a smile. “Your dick is a fucking monster, you know that,” he said, licking his lips, and then he had the nerve to actually laugh before going back to work.

Quentin took him all the way down this time, and Eliot could feel him choking on it, the soft flutter of his throat making his balls draw up tight against his body. And jesus he was actually for real going to come in ten seconds flat if Quentin didn’t calm down. He bucked up once, because how the fuck was he supposed to help himself when Quentin was literally gagging for more, and a cry slipped out of his chest as he held himself there in all that fever-warm tightness before tugging Quentin back.

“Q… hey…” Eliot panted, feeling like his lungs might just explode, releasing his hold on Quentin’s hair and taking his face in his hands. “I know you wanna choke on it baby but fuck, you’re gonna make me come right now if you do that again.”

“Sorry,” Quentin laughed, his pretty mouth somehow even prettier all red and wet and ruined. “I just really need this right now.”

“I know.” Eliot thumbed at his cheek, the flushed pink skin like a little flame under his touch. “That’s why you’ve come away with me, sweetheart. Tell me where we are.”

“We’re at the mosaic,” Quentin said, his dark wet eyes locked on Eliot’s, his strong hands curling around Eliot’s thighs.

“That’s right.” Warm tiles under his bare feet, the scent of the fire, wildflowers blooming in the garden. Eliot was _there_ , even if already he could feel it slipping away. “And tell me who’s here with us?”

“No one,” Quentin said softly. “It’s just the two of us.”

Eliot nodded. “That’s it, baby.” His hands went to Quentin’s hair again, and he spread his thighs a little wider, pushing forward, so they were as close as they could possibly be from such an angle. “Now just let me take care of you.”

Quentin nodded, and his lips were already falling open, yielding under Eliot’s touch in an instant, letting him feed his dick back into the heat of his mouth slowly, slowly. Quentin sealed his lips around the head and started to suck, moaning like _he_ might come from this and fuck, maybe this was just a bad idea all around. There was no way he was going to last long enough to actually fuck him if Quentin didn’t stop—

“Baby, baby,” Eliot pulled Quentin off with a slick pop, laughing and trying his damndest to shake off the orgasm stirring hotly between his thighs like he was a fucking teenager all over again. “That’s… I can’t. Jesus… your mouth…”

Quentin whimpered at that, his eyes fully pleading now. “Eliot. Please…”

Under normal circumstances, Eliot might be thinking in terms of round two already, a nap in between, certainly he’d be able to get it up again after a breather. But beyond the veil of this bullshit game of pretend, Eliot knew this was quite literally his only shot. “Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked, sounding more than a little desperate. “Or do you want this more?”

“I want both,” Quentin laughed, and there was a fraction of a second where Eliot thought he might just actually break down and cry.

He took a breath, tugging Quentin forward to press a kiss to his forehead, and then up into his lap, his skin so warm Eliot might as well have been baking out in the light of the sun on the hottest, longest day of summer. “How about,” he said, drawing Quentin closer, closer, running his hands up along the gentle curve of his waist. “You let me finger you open nice and slow. I’ll make it so good for you, sweetheart…”

Quentin let out another bratty little whine, knocking his head forward against Eliot’s shoulder. “I wasn’t done sucking your dick.”

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said, biting back a swell of laughter that quickly gave way to a sickening coil of dread. _But if this is the very last time…_ “But you should know, I’m terribly selfish.”

“It’s okay,” Quentin said, resting his head on Eliot’s shoulder with a deep sigh. “How do you want me?”

Eliot hummed, shutting his eyes, for a moment letting his fingers explore without the burden of a single thought, drinking in every inch of Quentin’s skin that he could reach. “On your back, I think. So I can see your face.”

They stayed locked together for just a moment longer, and then Quentin slipped away, crawling up onto the bunk as Eliot pulled himself to his feet. Quentin reached for him, touching his hip, his thigh, his hair falling around him like a silky halo, and Eliot felt paralyzed by the weight of it all. He was so goddamn beautiful, and his cock was so pretty and pink and flushed where it stood rigid against his belly, and Eliot didn’t understand how he could possibly exist in the same space as something so _good._ Something so soft and perfect and—

“Hey,” Quentin said, bending his knees and parting his thighs, pulling Eliot out of his trance with the sound of his voice. “Come on, Eliot, please. Don’t make me wait.”

_Get it the fuck together, Eliot,_ he scolded himself, giving Quentin a little nod before crawling up to kneel at the foot of the bed. _You can do this. Just pretend for a little while and get over yourself. You fucking want this. You want him so goddamn badly you can hardly—_

Eliot touched Quentin’s ankles, his calves, the bony juts of his knees. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, uncertain Quentin could even hear him, moving himself closer until he was sitting back on his heels in between Quentin’s parted thighs.

The boat tipped violently underneath them, and Eliot shut his eyes. _We’re at the mosaic,_ he repeated to himself. _This is our little bed in our little cottage. Nothing and no one can come in._ Eliot opened his eyes, and Quentin reached out, taking him by the wrist so sweetly, whispering, “Come here. Kiss me.”

Eliot let Quentin draw him in and wrap his legs around his hips, swallowing Eliot in his warmth, his mouth and his hands and his softness. They kissed until they were breathless, until Eliot felt as though he’d melted bodily into Quentin beneath him, until his cock was aching where it was trapped between their bodies, and Eliot nuzzled into the hollow of his throat with a bone-deep sigh.

Quentin asked, “What are you thinking about?” and Eliot had no idea where to begin.

If he were being honest, all he wanted to do was shut down the pesky, thinking part of his brain, but he would settle for pretending. Eliot wanted so badly to pretend, and he sighed, uncertain what to say, settling on, “Just you,” pressing his lips to the warm curve of Quentin’s cheek before pulling back, separating himself from the cage of Quentin’s body, reaching for a pillow and shoving it up under Quentin’s hips.

_Pretend, pretend. Just for an hour, just for ten goddamn minutes. Shut up and let yourself have something. Shut up and just… pretend._

Eliot pressed two fingers to the velvety seam of Quentin’s lips and said, “Suck,” pushing them into the warmth of his mouth and meeting no resistance, watching as Quentin took the length of them all the way down with a whimper. Eliot fucked them into all that gorgeous wet heat once, twice, wrapping his free hand around Quentin’s dick just to feel it throb. And Quentin moaned around his fingers, bucking his hips at the contact, his mouth so soft and his dick so hard that Eliot felt delirious.

When he pulled his fingers free, Quentin was breathless, “Inside,” the only word croaking its way out when he spoke. He spread his thighs a little wider, canting his hips on the pillow, begging for it with his entire body.

Jesus. Eliot shuddered and, yeah. That was exactly the motivation that he needed. He took the tips of his spit-slick fingers, began teasing delicate little circles over the tight rim of Quentin’s hole, taking the fingers of his other hand and dragging them through the pre-come streaked across his belly, bringing them to his lips to get a taste. 

And, fuck, it was almost too much for Eliot to stand, the way he was spreading himself out so needy and wanting, pleading little noises falling out of his parted lips. He tapped his fingers against Quentin’s hole just to tease him, then spit onto the pads of his fingers to get him wetter, missing magic now more than he had in a very long time because jesus, a lube spell sure would be nice, and Quentin was so fucking _tight_ when he pressed the tip of his first finger in, following it with the other a moment later.

“Relax, baby” Eliot breathed, soothing a hand along Quentin’s hip and holding him steady. “That’s it. Open up for me. That’s so good.”

He added more spit, fucking in with just the tips until he felt Quentin’s body relax into the rhythm, and when he started to loosen up a little Eliot gave him half their length, crooking them just so when he was inside, fluttering over that spot that made Quentin’s body wind up tight, drawing the pleasure out like a bone-deep sigh before pulling away.

Eliot gave Quentin’s dick one long, languid stroke just to watch him teeter on the edge, to hear him babble, to feel the hardness of it throbbing in his hand. He bottomed out with his fingers, holding himself inside for one blissful moment to feel Quentin twitch and shudder and fuck himself down onto the length of them.

“Jesus fuck,” Quentin spit, fucking up into Eliot’s fist, his dick leaking pre-come and making it so so wet and slick. “I’ve missed this…”

He took his hand away from Quentin’s dick, but kept fucking him with the full length of his fingers, adding a third along with more spit, drawing a beautiful, guttural moan from his chest. “There’s nothing to miss. We’ve been doing this for weeks, remember?”

“Yes.” Quentin arched up off the bed when Eliot went three fingers deep, spearing him open on their fullness. “You fuck me everywhere. Everywhere…” Quentin actually laughed then, his whole body shuddering under Eliot’s attention. “I love your dick. I love it… I love…”

The Muntjac groaned and sighed, and Eliot braced himself for another violent lurch that didn’t actually come. He pulled his fingers out of Quentin’s body and held onto the bony anchors of his hips. “And my dick loves you,” he said, eyes locked on Quentin’s chest, the way it was rising and falling so quickly, his skin dappled in shades that ranged from soft baby pink to deep blushing scarlet.

_And I love you, I love you, I love you,”_ he thought, biting back a pang of something terrible. _Focus, just goddamn focus, Waugh. Get your dick inside him._ Eliot pulled his fingers out and yeah, Quentin was plenty ready to take it now. He was leaking enough pre-come to make him slick, but he spit down into his palm anyway and got his dick nice and wet, trying his best to shove away the gnawing realization that this was definitely a giant fucking mistake he was going to regret the moment he blew his load.

He pulled the pillow out from under Quentin’s hips and tossed it away, dragging him forward and getting his knees up under him until Quentin was practically draped over his lap. He pushed one of his legs back, holding him open, spitting down onto his hole a few times for good measure, a rote series of movements that he’d done countless times with countless lovers, but never with this particular brand of misery waiting for him on the other end, never with this ache. No, this ache was reserved for Quentin Coldwater alone. 

Eliot lined himself up with one traitorous hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. “We’re gonna…” He dragged the head of his dick over Quentin’s hole, feeling it flutter underneath him, slick and open and warm. “We’re gonna take this slow. Okay?”

Quentin nodded, tossing back his head and exposing the line of his throat, his whole body winding itself into tight lines of anticipation. “Please…” was all he could manage when he spoke, and Eliot felt the word shudder through him as he started to push inside.

“Relax,” he breathed, eyes locked on the spot where he'd begun splitting Quentin’s body in two, soothing a hand down the back of his thigh, giving him just the tip before going still. “Open up for me, baby. That’s it.”

Quentin was breathless, speechless, mouth hanging open in strangled pleasure as Eliot pulled back, then sank in a little deeper, slicking them with more spit as he went. It was a delicate dance, feeling Quentin’s body stretching to take the thickness of him gently, gently, somehow still fighting the drive to sink in to the hilt and fuck like they were mindless, rutting animals seeking pleasure, nothing else.

“That feels so good,” Quentin said, his voice going all high and thin. “It feels so…”

“I know, baby. I know.” Eliot pushed deeper, deeper, taking one of Quentin’s knees and hooking it up over his shoulder, draping the other up over his hip. “You’re so good for me. Your body feels like fucking heaven.”

“It’s so deep,” Quentin keened, and Eliot gave his cock a single stroke, and then another, the frantic pulsing of his blood coming to life inside his hand. And yeah, this was so much better than thinking, so much better than the anticipation of oncoming pain. Just an hour, just ten blissful fucking minutes...

“It is.” Eliot let all the air push out of his lungs as Quentin’s tight, slick hole fluttered around his dick. “But I can go deeper. You want all of it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” the word stretched out of Quentin’s body like a sigh, and Eliot thought _fuck it,_ surging forward, because being mindless was so much fucking better, the length of his cock slipping fully into Quentin’s body until there was no more left to give. “Jesus fucking… El, oh my god.”

“Oh, baby…” Eliot went still, his head lulling to the side and resting against Quentin’s knee, for a moment unable to do anything but revel in the warmth of his body and just… breathe. 

Eliot’s thighs were already trembling, and Quentin was fucking vibrating from the inside out, and Eliot could only think in incoherent poetry, something about Quentin’s body being carved to slot like a dream over his dick. Something about his skin blushing from his ears to his cock and the magic that still burned like an inferno at the center of him, even with nothing left to fuel it in the air.

He started to move just a little, pulling out maybe an inch and rocking back in slowly, so slowly he was barely moving at all. And Quentin—beautiful perfect gorgeous fucking _insatiable_ Quentin—reached for him, threading the fingers of his hand into one of Eliot’s, squeezing with all his strength, quaking like a leaf swept up in a hurricane.

“I can feel you…” Quentin swallowed, took a breath and pushed it out. “I can feel you… El…”

The way he said the words, it was like he could hardly believe it, that Eliot could actually be _inside of him_ , and for a moment Eliot allowed himself to consider that he could actually just… have this. That this could be something other than Quentin desperate and aching to get out of his mind, something more than a stress-fuck they were going to regret the moment their bodies were sated of their hunger. That maybe they could—

No. Fuck no. Eliot had to shut his eyes, the fear rising in his belly so all-consuming it was like being choked from the inside out. Quentin pulled his hand away, shifting where he was wrapped around Eliot from hip-to-shoulder, and made a needy little sound.

“Please, El,” he breathed. “Please move. I need you to… I wanna…”

Eliot opened his eyes, taking Quentin roughly by the hips, shaping his fear into something useful. “Tell me how badly you want it,” he breathed, every word coming out just as ruined as he felt. “Tell me how badly you want me to fuck you.”

“I want it, El.” Quentin touched Eliot’s chest, his neck, his shoulder, his body literally quivering around him in a way that made Eliot’s head feel like it was being pulled underwater. “I want it…”

“That’s not good enough.” He pushed Quentin’s leg from his shoulder, careful to not pull all the way out as he moved. “Wrap around me,” he breathed, feeling Quentin’s ankles lock at the small of his back, spreading his knees a little wider, and he seemed to sink impossibly deeper from this angle. “That’s it. You feel that?” He gave Quentin’s hips a squeeze, holding onto him tightly, their bodies perfectly flush together. Eliot literally could not get any deeper inside him if he tried. “Tell me.”

“El. El…” Quentin gripped Eliot’s forearms, pleading with his eyes, with the way his whole body trembled, and Eliot gave him a single gentle thrust just to hear him keen. “Eliot. Please…”

“I’ll fuck you hard if you ask me to.” Quentin’s body was his anchor to keep those pesky thoughts at bay, and for now at least it seemed to be working. Being mindless was just so, so, so much better than thinking. “Just like this. I’ll fuck you until you pop, baby. You know how good I can make it for you.”

Quentin tossed his head back, his body arching deeply where it was spread out over Eliot’s lap. And oh, it should not have been legal on any planet in any universe to be that goddamn beautiful. “Please fuck me,” he said, voice so wrecked it was hardly recognizable. He tried moving his hips a little, but Eliot was holding him too firmly in place. “Jesus fucking fuck, Eliot, I need you to move before I lose my mind.”

“Do you want it slowly…” Eliot pulled out halfway, spitting down into the space where their bodies were connected before thrusting back inside, his hands like a vice on Quentin’s hips. If he let go now, he told himself, he was going to float away, so he let his fingertips sink in a little deeper. “Or do you want it hard?”

The whine that slipped out of Quentin’s chest was all need and primal desire, and he punched all the air from his lungs as he said, “Hard, hard, hard,” fucking begging for it now with every twitch and tremble of his body, in the way his back arched impossibly deeper and his hands scrabbled at the bedsheets beneath him, and it was enough to spark something feral in Eliot’s veins, sending his mind straight into a void of wild, blissful, animal static.

Eliot didn’t growl exactly, but the sound he made was something like it, a guttural vibration in his throat as he moved Quentin up off of his dick and then pulled him back down again, rocking his hips to meet him somewhere in the middle. Quentin choked out something that sounded like, “Again,” and Eliot no longer had the strength or the will to deny him, could only give in to the singular drive of his lizard brain to _fuck fuck fuck_ into the tight heat of Quentin’s wanting body.

Everything moved faster then, their bodies and their blood, the way that Quentin cried so loud Eliot was certain every last occupant of the Muntjac could hear him, but he couldn’t be bothered to give a single, solitary fuck. Let them hear, let all of Fillory know. It only spurred Eliot’s hips to work faster, for every muscle in his hands and arms to work in tandem to move Quentin up and down like a piston, fucking him onto his dick, angling their bodies just so that he hit his prostate with every brutal thrust.

Quentin was sobbing now, groping at Eliot’s thighs, his arms, anywhere that his hands could find as nonsense words rolled their way out of his mouth. It wasn’t a language, but something deeper, something only understood by flesh and sweat and wanting, something that only made Eliot’s body work faster, something that made him hunger for just a little more, more, _more._

When Quentin came, it was with a high keening sound, like something was being wrenched out of the marrow of his bones, like he was being exorcised. Eliot’s hand moved to his dick and stroked him once, twice, three times, making him shoot all the way up to his chest, making him sob in glorious beautiful perfect fucking agony, his hole clenching around Eliot’s dick as he fucked every last drop from his body, pretty little whimpers slipping out of his mouth even as he went utterly boneless on the bed.

Eliot stilled his hips to a gentle rolling wave, rocking along with the motion of the ship, bringing the hand splattered with Quentin’s come to his mouth and lapping it clean. Quentin pawed uselessly at Eliot’s wrist, his ankles still locked in a death grip at the small of Eliot’s back, the words coming out of his mouth little more than a garbled, tear-soaked mess.

“No, no, no,” he breathed, and Eliot soothed a hand down the center of his shuddering chest. “Don’t, don’t…” he pleaded, going all deadweight in Eliot’s lap, his ankles finally giving up their hold. “Give it… give it to me…” he choked, and Eliot let himself slip free from Quentin’s body with a sigh.

Quentin lay quivering and sated on the bed, spread out like a pelt baking in the sun. “Don’t go,” he whined, but Eliot was already straddling the line of his thighs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eliot said, spitting down into his palm and stroking himself quickly, aching to keep hold of the wild energy thrumming under his skin for just a moment longer, just a minute, just one more goddamn second of bliss before sinking down into the pit waiting to swallow him whole somewhere beyond the horizon.

“In my mouth. Please,” Quentin begged, but Eliot was already coming, his orgasm rippling through him in pure, undistilled fucking torment, shooting in hot spurts all over Quentin’s soft cock where it lay spent against the curve of his hip.

Eliot let his body fall forward, all but collapsing against Quentin’s chest with a sob he quickly choked away. The pleasure washed through him and fell apart almost at once, and with it the pretense that this was anything other than what it was: a spectacular fucking mistake. The regret was instantaneous, rising up like a prehistoric monster to swallow him body and soul. Eliot pulled away quaking, unsteady and stumbling to his feet, filthy with sweat and come and drowning in the reality of what he’d allowed himself to become.

Quentin rolled onto his side with a little whimper, reaching out a hand. “Hey. Where are you going?”

Eliot didn’t answer, couldn’t get his mouth to work, his brain too busy screaming to the tune of _what the fuck did you just do_ to be able to but two words together. The boat pitched roughly under his feet and he cursed the Muntjac's very existence, by some miracle managing to stay upright as he searched for his underwear, his pants, his shirt, began dressing with his back turned and an old, familiar shame rising in his throat. When was the last time he’d felt this particular brand of regret after sex? Probably not since Indiana, his senior year of high school when he let some burly farm hand fuck him for the very first time, and all he wanted to do right after was run and hide away.

He could hear Quentin shifting behind him as he fumbled with the tie of his shirt. “Eliot,” he said, sounding spent and soft and maybe a little more than defeated, “look at me.”

Eliot gave up on his shirt almost as quickly as he'd started, let it flap open in the front as he half-turned his body back around, but keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “Do you feel better now?” he asked, the words clawing in his throat, his tongue feeling all deadweight in his mouth.

“I’d feel better if you’d look at me,” Quentin said with a sigh, sounding so fucking tender, and Eliot let the imagined warmth of him slip up under his skin for a fraction of a second. “Come back here. We’re at the mosaic. Remember?”

But Eliot couldn’t bear the thought of looking back at him now, or crawling back into that bed, or allowing himself for one second longer to pretend. And who the fuck was he kidding honestly. They’d never been pretending. They’d been here on this doomed ship writhing together in a room the size of a coffin all along. 

He reached for his shoes and Quentin huffed, “Oh for fuck’s sake, Eliot, stop,” but he was already heading for the door. 

He took a breath, his pulse skipping wildly in his neck, managing to squeeze out, “We shouldn’t have…” but just barely, the words choking off entirely as he reached for the doorknob, pushing out of the room in his bare feet with his shirt falling from his shoulder, the emotion so thick in his throat he didn’t understand how he was still actually breathing.

Quentin shouted after him, but Eliot didn’t look back, knew he wouldn’t have the strength to fight if he dared for even a moment. He pulled the door shut tightly behind him, his hand still filthy with drying come, miraculously managing to make his way to the solitude of his own room without encountering anyone else onboard. He shut his door firmly and locked it, hating himself so completely he wanted to fucking scream, and might have even done it if he’d had one ounce of energy left in his quickly crumpling body. He tossed his shoes down on the floor with a deep thud. He went to his bed, nearly identical to Quentin’s, and curled up on his side.

Eliot called upon his fear then, his oldest and truest friend, and let it wash over his body until he’d been consumed. He was an old hand at repression, more adept at locking shit away than he was at both magic and sex. He could do it again. He would be okay.

Eliot shut his eyes, breathed in deeply, trying to forget, but the scent of Quentin was still so heavy on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen... I know this is sad and I'm really sorry but. Eliot in a wrap top is to blame. Nothing here is my fault.
> 
> Okay, it's maybe a little bit my fault. But mostly Eliot Waugh's.


End file.
